An Evil Heart (Kate Burkholder, #15)(80)
The kitchen is a study in controlled chaos. My sister-in-law, Irene, stands at the counter, rolling dough quickly and efficiently, her back straightening and bending as she works. My sister, Sarah, stands next to her, pressing dough into a glass pie pan. A few feet away, a woman I went to school with slices apples with a paring knife. A large older woman mans the counter, peeling McIntosh apples at high speed.
“If you didn’t talk so much,” she drawls in Deitsch, “you might just get those apples sliced before they turn brown.”
The good-natured scolding is followed by a chorus of laughter.
I’m so dumbfounded by this early show of support that for a moment I can’t find my voice. Instead, I stand in the doorway, taking in the scene, trying to figure out exactly how I fit into it.
A dozen boxes of mason jars are stacked against the wall. A bushel basket of apples sits on the floor at the feet of the woman peeling. Another bushel basket of celery has been shoved against the cabinet.
Amish weddings are a huge affair, as social as they are religious and steeped in tradition. Even in a town as small as Painters Mill, most weddings are attended by three or four hundred. Growing up, I attended dozens. As a girl, it was all about the pie and volleyball and playing with my peers. As I grew older, I was awed by the mystery and wonder of what it meant. Later, as a teen, I felt certain that part of being Amish would never be for me.
Of course, my wedding will be a far cry from a typical Amish wedding. There will be no service beforehand; Bishop Troyer will not perform the ceremony. Some Amish will not attend, simply because I’m not a member of the church and they don’t consider me part of the community. But I know that just as many Amish will come. They’ll help with preparations, the men moving furniture and clearing the house for what will likely be a hundred or more attendees. The women will deal with the details and preparing food.
“Katie!”
I startle at the sound of my sister’s voice. I look up to see Sarah looking at me over her shoulder, her hands busy with the dough. And then all eyes are upon me, and suddenly I feel excruciatingly self-conscious and out of place. I’m in uniform this morning, my .38 strapped to my hip, and it’s never been so glaringly obvious that I’m not part of this. I’m not one of them.
“You’re busy,” I say, and immediately wish I could take the words back.
Sarah tilts her head. “We’re making pies is all. Apple.”
“We might have those pies before the wedding if Anna could slice a little faster,” says the older woman.
One of the women snickers. Another coughs into a kerchief. I’m pretty sure I hear a chuckle from the woman slicing the apples.
“Can I help?” I barely recognize my own voice and clear my throat. “I’m a pretty good slicer.”
“We got this, Katie,” says Sarah.
“Sitz dich anne un bleib e weil.” Irene, my sister-in-law, wipes her hands on her apron and pulls out a chair. You just sit yourself down and stay awhile.
Before I can comply, she crosses to me and takes my hand, guides me to the chair. “This is Lovina,” she says, motioning to the large woman. “And you remember Anna.” She motions with her eyes to the woman slicing apples. “They’re here to help with the food.”
“Sarah’s been doing most of the work,” Irene says.
“Got the chickens and celery lined up a while back,” Naomi puts in.
“Don’t forget all those mason jars,” Anna adds.
“Pies’ll be finished today,” Irene says breezily.
It occurs to me that the wedding is the day after tomorrow and I feel that beast of panic gallop through me.
Giving a final finger-press to the dough, Sarah wipes her hands on a towel and grins at me. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen Katie Burkholder without something to say.”
“Ain’t that the truth.” Chuckling, Irene goes to the gas-powered fridge and pulls out a plastic pitcher of what looks like tea. She snags a glass out of the cabinet, pours, and places it in front of me. “Got some mint in it. Good for a nervous stomach.”
I see the mouths of the other two women twitch as I sink into the chair. Only then do I realize my legs are weak.
Sarah pours tea for herself, too, snags a lined pad of paper from the counter, and brings both to the table. “Your dress is all ready, by the way. You can take it with you if you’d like.”
“Thank you,” I tell her. “I will.”
“If you have a few minutes, I wanted to talk to you about food.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been in touch,” I say. “I’ve been tied up with the case…”
Waving off my concerns, Sarah falls into the chair with a sigh, as if she’s been on her feet too long. “Well, you got that awful killing solved. Everyone’s been talking about it. Praying, too. For all of them.”
“I wasn’t the least bit surprised when that Fisher boy didn’t join the church,” Anna says.
“Been trouble since he was two years old,” Naomi adds.
“His mamm is just beside herself,” Irene tells me. “She’s over in Berlin, you know. We’re going to take a casserole to the family after the wedding.”
Using an old-fashioned No. 2 pencil, Sarah scribbles on the pad; then her eyes find mine. “We’ve got roast chicken with bread stuffing, mashed potatoes, gravy, and creamed celery. Pies for dessert, of course. Apple and cherry.” She offers a knowing smile. “Apples are from our own orchard.”